


The Curves of Your Lips Rewrite History

by zamwessell



Category: Les Misérables (2012), Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Schönberg/Boublil
Genre: Blow Jobs, Enemy Lovers, Hate Sex, Identity Porn, M/M, Oral Sex, Porn, Rimming, top!Javert, top!Valjean
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-18
Updated: 2013-02-18
Packaged: 2017-11-29 18:19:43
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 16,751
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/690023
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/zamwessell/pseuds/zamwessell
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Javert/Valjean - hatesex that becomes a genuine relationship.</p><p>From the prompt: Javert recognises Madeline as Valjean from the moment they meet, but they both know that any accusation would come down to his word against that of a respected businessman. So Javert goes about his duties and waits for Valjean to slip up, while Valjean goes about his life and waits for Javert to denounce him.</p><p>Of course it would all be so much easier if they didn't have to see each other every day.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> From the kinkmeme prompt:
> 
> Javert recognises Madeline as Valjean from the moment they meet, but they both know that any accusation would come down to his word against that of a respected businessman. So Javert goes about his duties and waits for Valjean to slip up, while Valjean goes about his life and waits for Javert to denounce him.
> 
> Of course it would all be so much easier if they didn't have to see each other every day.
> 
> Maybe Javert can't help but start to doubt after months of watching Valjean be nothing but unwaveringly good. Maybe they clash over their opposing attitudes to crime and punishment. Maybe one happens to save the other's life. Certainly being hyperaware of each other isn't helping matters. But after months of suspicion and mistrust and barbed exchanges, and the hatesex that started to happen along the way, they begin to develop a grudging admiration for one another.
> 
> THIS IS BASICALLY JUST PORN; I APOLOGIZE

He knew this mayor was Valjean the instant he set eyes on the man. The face is different now, studiously gentle, but not different enough –  
  
"It seems to me we may have met," Javert said then, eyes flickering up to meet the gaze of this specious Monsieur Madeleine. He was impressed, in spite of himself, at the man's control. He did not run. He did not even give a start.  
  
"I would remember," the man said. Their gazes locked. Javert had played this game before with worse hands and won, and he thought Valjean could guess as much.  
  
"At Toulon," Javert said. "Are you going to deny it?"  
  
Valjean's posture did not change. "I do not need to," Valjean said. "Unless you mean to denounce me."  
  
He had never been stared at so intently before by anyone who did not already have nothing to lose. Prisoners had glowered up at him like that. But there was always a tell when he was facing down a criminal. Valjean's gaze was almost, but not quite, that of a man with nothing to hide. Not quite. Still, it seemed likely that they would gaze long before Valjean blinked. There was a damnable confidence to him.  
  
"My word is good here," Valjean said, measurely. "You just told me as much yourself. I do not think that of an officer as recently arrived as yourself would be so good."  
  
Javert took a step nearer. Valjean did not flinch. "Nature will out," Javert said. "I do not believe you will manage to pull the wool over their eyes much longer. And when you fail, I will be here. I am watching you, 24601."  
  
Valjean looked squarely back at him. "Thank you, Inspector," he said. "I hope I will surprise you."  
  
"I do not think you have it in you to surprise me," Javert said. He looked the man over. He remembered that body. The neat waistcoat and pressed trousers attempted to conceal it but they could not succeed entirely. The face had changed but not the body. One might put a panther in a waistcoat but he would not cease to be a panther. "Jean the Jack, Mayor of Montreuil-sur-Mer. It is like something out of a bad novel."  
  
Valjean smiled. The smile was disconcerting. "And how does the novel end?"  
  
"The good end happily, the bad, unhappily," Javert said. He bowed.  
  
"You will report to me tomorrow."  
  
"Yes," Javert said, mouth curling into a smirk. "Monsieur le Maire."  
  
\--  
He is not surprised. Not surprised, exactly. But Valjean demands more patience than he was prepared to lend to the task. It is months and there have been no slips. There ought to have been many. In Valjean's place, he himself would have –  
  
That is not a thought worth entertaining. But Valjean is infuriating. He quite obviously has the manners of a country laborer and Javert wonders that no one seems to see it. But the town is entranced with him. The town is doing well. He wishes that the town were doing badly, then regrets the wish. But it seems odd that Valjean's tending should produce such a flower.  
  
"Your people thrive," a visitor tells the Mayor.  
  
Madeleine nods.  
  
"Sweet water from a foul well," Javert mutters, when the visitor leaves.  
  
Valjean smiles at him. The smile is infuriating. That is the part of Valjean he hates the most. Convicts seldom smile. Their smiles are mocking and twisted and wrong, they remind him of broken pianos. Toulon is a place built to stop a man from smiling.  
  
Yet Valjean smiles. It is very natural. It is warm and the lines around the mouth are very nearly gentle. When Valjean smiles, sometimes, without consciously intending to, he thinks of him as Madeleine. Madeleine's smile is the smile of a man who merits trust. He has a soft mouth.  
  
"You are true to your word," Valjean says, shifting papers on his desk. "You watch me very intently."  
  
Javert glances away reflexively, then corrects the impulse in himself and lifts his eyes to Valjean's. "That is what I am here to do."  
  
"Only that?" Valjean asks.  
  
"You do not need to remind me of my duty," Javert snaps. "I've been at work long enough not to need Jean Valjean's tutelage, thank God."  
  
Valjean looks at him. "It is strange to hear that name," he says. "Even as you say it."  
  
"Strange," Javert says.  
  
"Good."

\--

"Inspector," Valjean says, one afternoon as Javert leaves the jail, "a word."  
  
"What?"  
  
"You took in this man in front of his children."  
  
"He must be made an example of."  
  
"Temper your justice with some mercy."  
  
"I do not call that mercy," Javert says. "That is not true mercy. It is very easy to be merciful. It is more difficult to be just."  
  
"Inspector."  
  
"Well, it can't be undone now," Javert says, irritable. "What do you want? The next time I take him, am I to make them leave the room?"  
  
"I pray there will not be a next time for him."  
  
"There is always a next time with men like him," Javert says. "Next time I shall say that the Mayor of Montreuil-sur-Mer insists that they depart the room before I clap their father in irons, that they may be spared this lesson."  
  
"Javert," Valjean says, almost beseechingly.  
  
"The convict wishes me to arrest criminals at the convenience of the criminals," Javert says, with a harsh chuckle. "That's rich! That's very rich."  
  
"I am still mayor," Valjean says, quietly. They look at each other. Valjean's dark eyes are uncomfortably familiar. "Do not forget that."  
  
"And I am still Javert," Javert says. "Do not forget that either."  
  
Valjean smiles. "It would be very difficult to forget that," Valjean says.  
  
Javert hates the smile. It is the worst of Madeleine's rebukes. It is undeniably gentle. Javert's own mouth is of a piece with the rest of his face, but Valjean's looks entirely wrong. It is a sensual mouth. Those lips are too soft. Sometimes, watching the man, Javert tries to think of the face where that mouth belongs. It would not be out of place on a woman. But she would not be a decent woman. No woman with a mouth like that could be proper. She could make a living with that mouth. That was what those lips were built for, Javert thinks, to wrap around a man's prick and –  
  
He checks the thought.  
  
The thought of a whore with Valjean's mouth lingers troublingly in his mind. There is a strange electricity around it that he cannot account for. The vision dogs him. It is only natural, he thinks. It is fitter for Valjean to be a whore than be a mayor. It is less out of the order of things. There is nothing wrong in such a thought. It does not excite him.

\--

Javert does not doubt himself. If anything, Valjean's excessive mercy only goes to prove his point. He dispenses justice like a convict, as though trying to set an example of grotesque leniency for his own judge.  
  
"You are only making it worse," Javert says to him, one afternoon. Valjean has just emerged from a house.  
  
"I did not see you there, Inspector," Valjean says. "What am I making worse?"  
  
"They are short of money because the man is a bad manager," Javert says. "He is lazy. He will not work. He ought to stop making children. If you allowed them to go hungry he might learn."  
  
Valjean shakes his head. "I will not allow them to go hungry."  
  
"This is not merciful of you," Javert says. "This is a convict's mistaken idea of justice. Mercy for everyone is neither justice nor mercy."  
  
Valjean walks in silence beside him. "I pray God does not agree with you," he says.  
  
"You are not God," Javert snaps.  
  
They pass a baker. "Inspector?" Valjean says.  
  
Javert shakes his head. "I am not hungry."  
  
Valjean pauses to buy a pastry and he waits because he has no reason not to.  
  
He watches Valjean eat. Valjean eats the small cake methodically, not ravenous like a starving man, but slowly, savoring it. He licks the crumbs off his fingers. As Valjean's tongue traces along his thumb the thought, _I was right about that mouth_ , surfaces suddenly. There is something too vivid about it. He jerks his eyes away.  
  
"He is a good man," Valjean says. "I do not think he is as lazy as you say."  
  
"Then you should give him work and not money," Javert says.  
  
"I have no work to give him," Valjean says. "I cannot make things happen at a wish. You know as well as I."  
  
"He has too many children."  
  
Valjean's mouth twists. "If you think he can be persuaded to forgo making any more, you are more of an optimist than I am."  
  
"I am not an optimist," Javert says. He almost chuckles.  
  
\--  
Months pass. He watches. He is stretched too taut. Every gesture, every remark of this creature who is Valjean, always Valjean, but, for all that, is still sometimes Madeleine, vibrates through him like the touch of a finger on a guitar string.  
  
Valjean is infuriating. Valjean creeps into his dreams, Valjean and his whore's mouth and those uncomfortably warm brown eyes and that familiar convict's body.  
  
He watches Valjean lift a cart off a man and it enrages him. That body is still unrepentant. The parts of that body that emerge from Valjean's neat mayor's clothes are like decent excerpts from a book Javert knows to be obscene. He wonders that no one else can see it. Valjean should stand before them, stripped, and they would see that this is not a mayor but a convict, that he is not a saint but a reprobate. Madeleine is a fitting name. The repentant sinner, the whore. He ought to be used thus. Javert would do it. He would make the man learn not to flout the law. He would put that mouth to its proper use. He would fall upon him and devour him whole.


	2. Chapter 2

Javert apprehends a pickpocket. When he makes his report at the mairie Valjean looks pained.   
  
"What did the culprit look like?" Valjean asks.   
  
Javert describes him – a juvenile gargoyle with thick bushy brows that made his face appear to have an awning.   
  
"That is very precise," Valjean says, smiling a little ruefully. "And a good likeness, if my memory serves."  
  
"I have a good memory for faces," Javert says.   
  
Valjean looks at him. "I know." It sounds almost like a private joke. Javert feels himself suddenly enraged.   
  
"Do not be insolent with me," he says, taking a step nearer. "You remember the pickpocket? Why did you not report him?"  
  
"He committed no crime," Valjean says.   
  
"You knew he was a pickpocket," Javert says. "I suppose you made him a gift of it."  
  
Valjean's eyes admit it.   
  
"You disrespect the law at every turn," Javert says.   
  
"I gave the man a chance," Valjean says. "Everyone deserves a chance."  
  
"No, they do not. And you are not the arbiter. The law exists. Let the law judge."  
  
"The law is a blunt instrument," Valjean says. "It rains on the just and unjust alike. And where it violates God's law I believe we have a duty to make what amends we can."  
  
"I don't need you to instruct me, 24601."  
  
"Do not call me that," Valjean says, and Javert notices that he is angry. They are both angry. Valjean's patience is not limitless. He exults a little in this realization.   
  
"You flout me at every turn. What sort of justice would we have in this city, were you left to administer it as you see fit?"  
  
"At least we might be less unmerciful," Valjean says. "You would arrest your own son and count it as a virtue."   
  
"And it would be!"  
  
"Is there no mercy?"  
  
"This mercy you talk of is false mercy."   
  
"It is better than no mercy at all."  
  
"A convict, handing down the law! That's good! That's very good!" Javert snaps.   
  
They are standing very close. "Is that all I will ever be to you?" Valjean asks, suddenly.   
  
"Yes," Javert says. "By God, what else would you be? What else could you be?"  
  
"I am the mayor of this town," Valjean says. "I am an honest man, by God's grace. I—"  
  
"You lie every time you speak your name," Javert spits.   
  
Valjean looks pained.   
  
"You exasperate me," Javert says.   
  
"Is there nothing I can do to convince you? Once fallen, can a man not be redeemed?"  
  
"You cannot."   
  
"I have changed," Valjean says. "With God's help, I have. I am not the man I was, Javert. You alone cannot see it, although you spend your days staring at me."   
  
"I watch," Javert snaps. "I do not stare."   
  
"Oh," Valjean says. "Yes, that is what you would call it." Valjean's eyes meet his. There is a heat in the look that he was not expecting. It settles pricklingly in the pit of his chest. "If I looked at you the way you look at me, all the time, Javert, you would tell me to stop. You would tell me I was foul."  
  
"If you did it would be," Javert says. "I am a man of the law, and you are a convict."

"I've been looked at like that," Valjean says. "But not since coming here. I did not expect it from you."  
  
"What did you expect?" Javert says. "I know what you are. I know what you deserve."  
  
"What am I?" Valjean asks. Javert wishes that mouth were not so close. Valjean seems to sense his discomfort. "Inspector?"  
  
"You are a reprobate," Javert says. He swallows. "You are a hypocrite. You are--"  
  
He is not sure which of them brings their mouths crashing together. But suddenly he is kissing Valjean breathless; their mouths come together with violence; he is plundering the convict's mouth with his tongue; he can feel waves of heat pouring off the convict's body. He slides a hand around the back of Valjean's neck and kisses him hard and obscene, tongue fucking his mouth, and Valjean takes it, emits a strangled gasp against his lips. When they sever they are both flushed and panting.   
  
"You taunt me," Javert says. "You spend your days taunting me. If I were not watching you would not walk your shoes to pieces giving alms to strangers."   
  
"I do not do it to taunt you," Valjean says, kissing him again. The kiss is angry; Valjean shoves him back against the bookcase and tries to spread his legs with a knee. Javert does not permit it. Valjean bites his lip. He catches the convict's hands and presses them back behind his head. He is not sure if they are kissing or fighting. He leans down and bites Valjean on the neck. Valjean makes a sound that evidently mortifies him. A flush creeps along his neck. Javert grins against his skin, bites another kiss into that throat, and Valjean is rubbing obscenely against him. He is not surprised how little is required to unleash this side of him.  
  
"Do not compound your sins with lying," Javert says. "You taunt me even now." His voice sounds much too rough. Valjean's eyes say that he notices. Valjean leans in and kisses him again, hard. He wonders how long they have been starving for this without knowing it.   
  
"I do not taunt you," Valjean says. He is breathless. Javert cannot hold back from that mouth. He kisses it again. "I have changed."  
  
"You cannot prove that you have changed. You still defy me. You still defy the law."  
  
"I do not defy you."   
  
"Do you not?" Javert asks. His eyes flicker down to Valjean's mouth. Valjean notices the look. Their eyes meet. "Then suck my cock."  
  
The request is blunt and crude and he is almost startled to hear the words leave his lips. They hang in the air between them like an unexploded shell. Valjean's eyes widen a little. Javert watches him swallow. "I have changed," Valjean murmurs. Then he is on his knees.   
  
Javert looks down at him, aghast. "You would not dare --" There is a quaver in his voice that he hates. This thing that he has asked is vile, it is not something he wants for its own sake, he thinks, desperately, he wants to humiliate Valjean, he wants to silence that mouth, he wants to put that mouth to better use. He does not think of it as something pleasant; he does not want the act for his own enjoyment. He does not.   
  
Valjean's eyes meet his and he cannot look away. Valjean's tongue flickers out to wet his lips, and– damn, damn, double damn, he is hard already at the suggestion. The sensation of those callused fingers fumbling with the fastenings of his trousers rockets through his entire body. When Valjean reveals him it is an embarrassing admission.   
  
"Did I do this?" Valjean asks. His voice sounds different – rougher. He licks his lips again and Javert's cock betrays him further, twitches; he is fully erect, painfully hard, there is no disguising this.   
  
"I can think of better uses for that mouth," Javert says, and his voice is rough too. Valjean has enough mercy to ignore it. He shoves the trousers down Javert's hips and then that mouth engulfs him. Javert chokes down an embarrassing sound. Valjean does not look away. It is strange to have those eyes locked on his as Valjean's lips stretch obscenely around his cock. Valjean takes more in his mouth with a stifled sound that sounds dangerously close to enjoyment. From the way Valjean's eyes flicker nervously away Javert can sense this is an admission too.

"You have hungered for this," Javert says, wishing his voice did not sound like that. "You are hungry for it." Valjean hollows his cheeks, sucks, and – God, Javert was right, it is good, it is beyond good, Valjean has a gift for this. Javert has to suppress the urge to thrust. Valjean's eyes widen in question at the stutter of his hips.   
  
"Let me fuck your mouth," Javert says, reaching down and fisting a hand in Valjean's hair. They are the crudest words he can think of. Valjean's mouth pulls off him with a faintly obscene pop.   
  
"Please," Valjean says, and – fuck, he will not last long, he is not sure why Valjean chose that word, if Valjean is abasing himself or taunting him, but the effect is the same. Valjean's hands move to cup the backs of his thighs, to hold himself in position.   
  
"Please?" Javert asks. He twists his fingers in Valjean's hair. Valjean's hair is soft. It is too soft. He was hoping it would be rough like Valjean's fingers.   
  
"Please," Valjean says, "sir." It is almost too much. He tugs Valjean's hair and then Valjean's mouth is on him again and if Valjean hears the sound that escapes him, the noise of relief to be back in that welcoming warm heat – he prays not. He lets himself thrust. Valjean chokes a little and his eyes squeeze shut, but he takes it. He takes it well. It is far too good. Javert sets a punishing rhythm. Valjean's fingers tense on the backs of his thighs.   
  
"This is what you were made for," Javert gasps, thrusting into him, and Valjean makes a little choked sound of contentment. "You have the mouth of a whore."  
  
Valjean chokes a little but does not loosen his grasp. Even like this he looks like Madeleine. It is infuriating.   
  
"I'm going to come in your mouth," Javert says.   
  
Valjean nods, and the motion pushes him to the brink. He holds Valjean's head, fingers digging into his scalp, rides out his climax like this, and he can feel Valjean's swallow. He is panting. He loosens his grip in Valjean's hair, pulls free. Some of his release trails down Valjean's chin. It is the filthiest thing he has ever seen. It is enough to make him want to spend again.  
  
"You've got—"  
  
"I know," Valjean says, looking a little furtive. Javert glances down. Valjean's trousers are straining to contain him.  
  
"You liked that," Javert says. His voice is uncomfortably breathless.   
  
Valjean crimsons.   
  
"You are utterly depraved," Javert says, reaching down with a thumb to wipe Valjean's chin.   
  
Valjean nods. He catches Javert's hand and licks the thumb and Javert's spent cock twitches helplessly.   
  
"Filthy," Javert mutters, wishing the word did not sound like a compliment. He sinks to his knees next to Valjean and palms at him through the straining fabric of his trousers. "That is what your mouth should be used for. That only. You're going to soil yourself thinking of it."  
  
Valjean's face contorts and his eyes squeeze shut and Valjean sags a little towards him, and he feels Valjean's spasm through the fabric against his hand. When Valjean's eyes open their faces are still too close. For a while they stare at each other, wide-eyed and breathless, hearts beating too quickly. Then Valjean looks away.   
  
"You are dismissed," Valjean says. His voice is shaking.   
  
Javert gets up and buttons his trousers and goes.


	3. Chapter 3

It is worse than ever.   
  
Valjean's smile is more infuriating than ever. Whenever he sees it he cannot help but think of fucking that mouth. He cannot help but think of the look on Valjean's face when he came.   
  
He makes his reports at the factory, as usual. He can feel Valjean's eyes raking down his body. He glances back just as defiantly. Their eyes speak to each other in the same language. Most of the words of the language are obscene. Valjean licks his lips, unthinkingly, and Javert's eyes flit there. By the time the gesture is over there is nothing casual about it. Javert tries to beat down the heat that is flooding his chest.   
  
"Might I have a moment, inspector?" Valjean asks, almost hesitantly. Javert knows now what that tone means.   
  
"Not at present," Javert says.   
  
Valjean toys with something on his desk, does not look at him. He can sense the effort required to keep that hand steady.   
  
"Am I dismissed?" he asks. He feels strangely nervous. The urge to take a step nearer and cover Valjean's mouth with his is – new, and overwhelming. He does not like it.   
  
\--  
  
Valjean has been trying to teach himself to ride. That he cannot is not a glaring omission, but it is an omission. One afternoon Javert finds him in the stables. Valjean has approached a horse wrong and spooked it. He is cornered in the stall. Javert manages to calm the beast.   
  
"Thank you, Inspector," Valjean says, dusting himself off.   
  
"Don't thank me," Javert says. A look passes between them.   
  
"Suppose I wished to thank you," Valjean says, measuredly.   
  
The suggestion should not go straight to his groin like that. He thinks Valjean notices the change in his expression. He shoves Valjean against the wall at the entrance to the stable and brings their mouths crashing together.  
  
"They're going to see us," Vajean mutters, entrancingly breathless, when Javert breaks the kiss, panting. Valjean's hands have slid onto his shoulders and Valjean does not move to push him away.   
  
"Are they?" Javert says. He leans in and kisses the corner of that mouth, kisses Valjean's face, kisses his neck. He does not know what has made him so bold. "They'll see you." Valjean leans into the touch and he feels oddly triumphant. "Suppose I fucked you right here," Javert mutters into his ear. "Suppose I had you right now, where anyone might walk in and see you."  
  
Valjean emits a shuddering breath. Javert slides a hand down his chest. He knows already what he is going to find when his hand reaches the juncture of Valjean's legs.   
  
"Then the whole town will know your shame," Javert says.  
  
"My –-humility." Valjean gasps when Javert's hand finds him, hard and straining at his trousers.   
  
"You wouldn't stop me," Javert says, fumbling for buttons. "I know what you are."  
  
"I'm a stronger man than you," Valjean grits out as Javert's hand wraps around him. "I could quite easily stop you."  
  
"But you would not. Did you want me in Toulon? It would not have been so out of place there. Half the men—"  
  
"No," Valjean says.   
  
"You were always looking at me."  
  
"It is not a crime to look. You look at me now. Do you want me?"  
  
Javert tightens his grip and Valjean gasps.   
  
"I want to fuck you," Javert says. "I want to use you as you deserve to be used. I want to make you remember what you are."  
  
Valjean makes a choked noise and Javert covers his mouth with a hand.   
  
"The next time," Javert says, half-startled at this admission, "I will make you spread for me on your mayor's desk and have you until you are crying my name. I will make you know what it is to flout the law."  
  
Valjean's tongue flits out and traces along his palm, and it jolts in his stomach. He moves his hand faster. Then Valjean is coming. It is strange to know what it feels like when he does. Valjean kisses his palm. Then the convict's hand slides into his trousers. Valjean's hand is rough but skillful. Valjean leans over and kisses him and the kiss is as good as an admission that there will be another time, on the desk or elsewhere; they kiss each other hungrily, messily, bruisingly. Valjean bites his lip. He moans into the convict's mouth as he comes.   
  
"You are welcome, monsieur," he says, as Valjean buttons his trousers. Their eyes meet. Valjean nods. He is smiling. Javert wishes he had not put that smile there.   
  
\--

Valjean's quarters are empty and they are arguing. They do not argue long. They both seem to be looking for excuses. In a few minutes he has shoved Valjean up against a bookcase and their mouths come together and he thinks, I have not been thinking of this.   
  
\--  
  
"Good morning, inspector," Valjean says. He looks very neat. Altogether too neat, if Javert were to consider it. Valjean's collar is high and stiff.   
  
"Good morning, monsieur," Javert says.   
  
Valjean fidgets with the collar, tugging it higher, and Javert does not think the man means to meet his eyes.   
  
"Don't smirk at me, inspector," Valjean says.   
  
"Monsieur."  
  
"Say what you came to say," Valjean says, giving the collar a final tug. Javert is overrun with recalled sensations of pressing Valjean against the wall and mouthing at that neck. He did not expect to know what it felt like to kiss that neck. The knowledge is uncomfortably present. He feels Valjean looking at him. Time, it seems, has passed.   
  
"We have arrested another pickpocket," Javert says.   
  
"What did he steal?"  
  
"Nothing, as it happens," Javert says, "but his intent was clear enough. The man he targeted was an officer. He had a hand in his pocket when we caught him."  
  
Valjean frowns. "Perhaps he was only trying to do your officer a kindness," he says.   
  
"No, that seems unlikely, I know how--" Javert starts, before he has properly listened to Valjean's words. He looks at him. Valjean's grin breaks swiftly over his entire face. He hates that smile. "No," Javert says, "not these officers."  
  
"No?" Valjean fidgets with the collar again. "Well."  
  
"Well."

Something has changed in the air of the room.

"Good morning, monsieur," Javert says.   
  
Valjean nods. "Yes, you are dismissed."  
  
\--  
  
"We don't need a new school," Javert says, suddenly. They are standing next to Valjean's desk. He wishes the mere sight of the desk and the way Valjean looks from the desk to him did not set certain thoughts flaring up suddenly within him.   
  
"I wasn't going to mention the subject," Valjean says. "I knew we disagreed."   
  
Their eyes meet. He sees understanding dawn in Valjean's eyes. There is a warmth in them that is new. "It is an unnecessary expenditure," Javert says, stepping closer, "and will create the wrong impression."  
  
"Well," Valjean says, and there is something almost coy in the appraising way he frowns, "wrong impressions are surely to be avoided."  
  
"Precisely." Javert says, and now he is a few inches from the Mayor and feeling curiously elated at having devised this strategy. "So you must abandon this folly."  
  
"Must I?"  
  
"I would advise it."  
  
"Is that an order, Inspector?" Valjean asks, and – those words should not go directly to his groin, but they do.   
  
The foreman picks the worst possible moment to come in with a question about the week's accounting.   
  
Javert strides home irate. You were trying to make this happen again, Javert, he thinks. You wanted him again. You have been wanting him all week. This was not meant to happen. He is a liar and a thief and – _Valjean's mouth stretched around him, taking his whole length, looking curiously pleased with himself_ – he is damnably clever with that tongue, Javert thinks. By the time he is home he has to abase himself quickly. It feels very mechanical. It is only when he thinks of Valjean grinning down into his face, that large hand moving along his length, that he actually spends.   
  
Valjean makes things interesting, at least, he admits.   
  
\--

The next argument is not long in coming.

Then he has Valjean against the wall of the mairie's dining room and for a moment he is not sure what comes next. Their eyes meet. Almost without thinking he wraps a hand around the back of Valjean's neck and brings their mouths crashing together. Valjean grins against his lips like a fish back in water. It is a long kiss, hard and bruising. If it can be called a kiss. It is an argument with tongues. Valjean's fingers are in his hair; he keeps a hand on the wall to hold Valjean there and his other hand slides to cup the back of Valjean's neck, to pull him closer. Finally Valjean pulls back. They are both panting hard. When their eyes meet it is like facing down in a ring.

"I should not have done that," Javert says, leaning in to kiss him again. Valjean's eyes meet his; he meets the barrier of Valjean's lips and tongues them open. Valjean's hands move to his shoulders and he thinks that Valjean is about to push him away, but Valjean pulls him closer. "You continue to exasperate me."

Then Valjean has pulled free of the wall and Javert finds himself slammed up against the bookcase. He leans in willingly to taste more of that mouth and finds he is kissing Valjean's neck instead. The sound Valjean makes goes straight to his groin.

"You make patience difficult," Valjean says, and – Javert wonders if his own voice sounds like that, suggestive and dark as Valjean's wide eyes.

"Your kind do not have much patience," Javert mutters, mouth brushing Valjean's ear, and he should not take so much satisfaction in the things Valjean's body is doing in response, but he cannot help it.

In answer Valjean kisses him again, tugs them away from the bookcase. Javert topples Valjean onto the table on his back. Two pewter dishes clang together.

"Pewter," Javert says.

"I need nothing better," Valjean says. The words emerge in a disjointed string. Javert is tugging off his collar. The inspector straddles him over the table. He looks up at the Inspector, panting and disheveled above him. "I could throw you off, Javert."

"Perhaps," Javert says, beginning on the waistcoat. "A man can do many things." He is determined to have it out with him this time. The waistcoat hits the floor and is joined by Valjean's shirt. When Javert has begun on the fastenings of Valjean's trousers Valjean looks up at him. His eyes are very large and dark in the candlelight.

"I could stop you."

"You will not," Javert says. He leans down. "I think you would sooner let me bend you over the table and have you like a whore than tell me to stop."

"Would I?"

Javert leans down and kisses him, reaching an arm under Valjean and tugging him up off the table until Valjean is standing between his thighs. Valjean comes willingly. Javert shoves the trousers down off his hips and Valjean steps out of them and they do not break the kiss. Javert pulls free.

"Bend over," Javert mutters, against his ear.

There is a moment's pause. Javert fears he has gauged this wrong. Then Valjean turns and settles with his elbows on the table. "What else?" he asks.

"Spread," Javert says.

Valjean does. Almost too willingly. It is strange to see such a powerful body submit to him so easily. Intoxicating is not the word. Javert suppresses an urge to press a kiss to the middle of Valjean's back, to trace the line of those muscled shoulders with his tongue.

"You will take this from me," he says.

"Yes," Valjean says, "Inspector."

The addition does things to him. Javert runs his hands up Valjean's back and along his arms, pressing his hands into the table. "You deserve this," he says. "And worse than this." He settles his chin in the crook of Valjean's shoulder and breathes the words against his ear, exulting at the way Valjean's back arches at the contact. "I know who you are." He kisses the side of Valjean's face, half on his ear, half in his hair, sucking at the flesh there when Valjean responds. "I ought to," he says, and he did not realize these words would excite him so much, he is straining against his trousers, "I ought to mark you right now, like this, where everyone can see and guess what you have become."

 

Valjean gasps a little. Somehow his face turns and they are kissing again – Javert did not mean them to be kissing, but he does not want to stop, this kiss has a violence to it and he will not let Valjean wrest mastery from him, no matter how clever his tongue. He slides a hand down Valjean's side and finds the man's erection straining against his stomach. Valjean emits a strangled moan into his mouth as Javert begins to stroke it. Javert pulls away first.

"You are vulgar," Javert says. "You ought to hear how wanton you sound. Are you always like this?"

"No," Valjean says, "I must admit I am not, Inspector."

"Good," Javert says. He kisses him roughly on the neck.

"That will bruise," Valjean murmurs, and it is not a protest. Javert wets his fingers in his own mouth. He is almost afraid to use Valjean's. He has been thinking of it too much. He thought of it twice yesterday. He slides a finger into Valjean and Valjean presses back willingly against the intrusion.

"Tell me what you want," Javert says.

"More," Valjean says.

Javert adds another finger. Valjean makes a series of stifled noises.

"I want you vulgar," Javert says, against his neck. "You are holding back."

"Yes," Valjean gasps. Javert tries to find the spot in him again. It is strange to care whether or not he is pleasing Valjean. "Yes, Javert, there. God. Yes." Valjean leans over and kisses him again. When Valjean finishes he is breathless and does not trust his voice.

"More," Valjean gasps again, and Javert tries a third finger.

"Oh God," Valjean gasps, and Javert never knew he would care to take him apart like this, methodically. Valjean writhes against him, panting, his pupils large and dark. "Javert."

"Ask for what you want," Javert says, "and I will see if I will grant it."

"I want," Valjean gasps, panting, "I want your cock."

"How?" Javert asks, with a twist of his fingers.

"Fuck me," Valjean pants, "fuck me, please, God, fuck."

Javert obliges. Valjean begging beneath him is not something he has words for. Valjean cries out when he enters him. He covers Valjean's mouth with a hand. Valjean kisses his palm. He fucks him hard and fast, slamming them into the table. The plates rattle. Valjean grunts. It should not be so good.

He mutters a variety of imprecations and then he is coming, face buried in Valjean's neck, panting hard.

Valjean looks back at him and he tries to kiss that smugness off his face. Valjean's hips are bruised from slamming into the table. He slides out of him and pulls Valjean to face him. "You haven't," he says.

"No," Valjean says.

Javert slides to his knees. He presses his mouth to the beginning of a bruise on Valjean's hip and Valjean makes a sound that twitches in his groin. "You," he says. Then he takes Valjean in his mouth. Valjean's cock feels bigger than it looks; he chokes a little on the thick weight against his tongue. He sucks it without trying to give too much thought to what he is doing. But it is hard to ignore the sounds Valjean makes, the way his face contorts, the tentative way Valjean's fingers reach into his hair. Javert pulls back.

"Keep your hands on the table," he mutters.

Valjean nods wordlessly and puts his hands back on the table.

"I'm going to," Valjean says.

Javert merely nods. Valjean's release fills his mouth. He swallows. He does not mean to meet Valjean's gaze when he does. Valjean's hand twitches on the table but he does not move it. He looks as though he wants to.

"You may," Javert says, "if you wish."

Valjean rubs his thumb caressingly down his cheek, and Javert wishes he had not permitted this. He does not like this softness. Valjean slides down the table and kneels in front of him and then Valjean kisses his face, and – Javert can hardly bear to look at him. He brings their mouths together and kisses him, hard. He thinks Valjean laughs against his lips. He hates that laugh. Their arms slide around each other.

Javert kisses his neck, noting the way Valjean melts into the touch. Then he gets up and starts making himself decent.

"You are going?"

"I cannot stay here," Javert says. He sounds more indignant than he feels. He cannot quench the satisfaction that burns in him from this. He has administered due punishment, he thinks. That is all. Still he cannot shake the sensation of his face pressed into Valjean's neck as Valjean takes him, the recollection of his fingers bruising into Valjean's hips, the unlooked-for delight of that surrender -- He cannot stand Valjean. There are so many things that he would not have known he wanted. That power yielding to him, so readily. Those elbows braced on the table, making the cutlery rattle. The ghost of Valjean's fingers in his hair. He walks and walks that night, but the satisfaction does not leave him. 


	4. Chapter 4

The thought of the body those neat clothes conceal, naked beneath him, taking him, bared for him, this convict-mayor shedding his mayor's skin to reveal the lash-marks Javert knows too well –   
  
It is uncomfortably distracting. It is good that Montreuil-sur-Mer is not Paris. In Paris a criminal might take advantage of this distraction. As it is there is little crime to deal with. He almost wishes there were more crime. He barks irritably at his subordinates. There is too much time to think of Valjean's mouth on him, Valjean's kisses, Valjean's shoulders, Valjean's body bent for him. It is uncomfortably present. He has given too little thought to his own body and Valjean has made him aware that he is flesh again; he can feel the places Valjean's hands have gripped him when this thing seizes them. He knows the spot beneath his jaw that Valjean likes to kiss. He knows those fingers. Sometimes he wishes Valjean were stone so that he could study him without feeling those eyes on him. There is too much warmth in them. He wishes he had noticed them before the mouth. They would have kept him away.  
  
\--  
Javert has just finished his patrol for the evening when he sees a door open and Valjean emerges. It is not Valjean's house. Valjean glances at him and starts as if scalded.   
  
"Back to your old ways?" he asks, and – he will have to turn over, later, alone, the sliding sensation in his chest. The thought that he might be called upon to arrest Valjean occupies a new place with reference to the rest of his thoughts. It is less satisfying than it was.   
  
"No," Valjean says. "I was only—" He appears tongue-tied.   
  
"Out with it," Javert says, closing the distance between them with a few swift strides.   
  
"--Hello, Inspector," Valjean says.   
  
"Out with it," Javert says, "or I will assume you were up to no good and go inquire of the householder."  
  
"I would prefer you did not," Valjean says. He thinks, in the lamplight, that the man is coloring. Javert has seen that furtive blush before in much different circumstances. He does not like what the recollection does to him.   
  
"Out with it," Javert says.   
  
Valjean looks down. "She is a widow whose children are in need of money," he says, "and I – have left them some. I did not wish anyone to know."  
  
Javert emits a harsh laugh. "You wished them to think an angel had flown through the window?"   
  
Valjean smiles at him. "I doubt anything larger than a cherub could fit in those windows."  
  
"Perhaps a fairy urchin," Javert says, with a wry twist of his mouth, "or the elf who curdles the milk."  
  
"I am no elf."  
  
"You are no angel either," Javert says, wishing that the conversation had not forced him to conjure up an angel with Valjean's determined brawn and vast streaming white wings. It is not a fit thought to have in public. Valjean makes the sort of angel that Michelangelo would have favored -- a fleshly angel with muscular shoulders and firm thighs and – Javert glances down. He does not like having to glance away. But it is better not to let Valjean catch him in these thoughts. "You ought to have notified me," he says, "lest my men mistook your charity for theft."  
  
"The Lord said that in charity you were not to let your left hand know what your right hand was doing," Valjean says, "and in this town you are my right hand, Inspector." There is nothing indecent in the words, Javert thinks. Merely courtesy, with the faintest suspicion of flattery. But the way Valjean says it. He wonders if Valjean's voice has always been capable of so much suggestion, if he has only just begun to notice it.   
  
Their eyes meet and lightning jolts between them. The time for talking has passed. "My rooms are closer," Javert says, turning on his heel. After the glance that passed between them he does not doubt that Valjean will follow. In a few minutes they are jouncing his narrow bed, Valjean's fingers whitening in the sheets, their clothes in a ruck on the floor. The man is maddening. Javert is angry and is not gentle and it is – so good, impossibly good, it is better than good. What is most strange is that this is not strange. His marks are still on Valjean's skin. This is not the first time he has had Valjean beneath him gasping and writhing on his length. He knows as he leans down to bite a kiss into Valjean's throat that it will not be the last.

"You are infuriating," he mutters, and Valjean laughs. "Look at yourself, how readily you take me. You are shameless."  
  
Valjean makes an unintelligible sound and kisses him again. The kiss is bruising and thirsty and messy; they kiss the way he has seen sailors kiss the shore. He hopes that surfeit will end this hunger. But the more he tastes that mouth the hungrier he finds himself for it.  
  
"When did you learn this?" he gasps, pressing Valjean's hands down above his head. The pillow is flung to the floor and he could not give a sou about the pillow. He is thrusting in earnest now, watching Valjean's face change, hearing his gasps. "What whore taught you these wanton tricks?"  
  
"You have been my instructor so far," Valjean breathes. "Am I progressing, sir?"  
  
He tries desperately not to come in reply to that, but he cannot help himself. He thrusts once more and is lost. He can feel Valjean's eyes on him as he comes undone. Afterwards he pulls out and reaches for Valjean's cock and strokes him idly to completion, watching his eyes fall shut and his mouth open. He leans up and kisses him as Valjean draws nearer, catches Valjean's choked cry in his mouth as Valjean's release pulses over his fingers.   
  
Afterwards he pulls free and they lie panting, hearts beating rapidly.   
  
He wipes the hand on Valjean's sweat-streaked chest. Valjean looks up at him. Then Javert – he will account for the impulse later, he thinks, he will account for all these impulses later – pushes himself up onto his forearms and begins to kiss it off Valjean's chest. It is not so terrible. And it is an excuse to lave those planes of muscle with his tongue. He does not look at Valjean as he does it. Afterwards Valjean pulls him down into a brusque kiss and tastes himself on Javert's tongue – he knows the taste, he thinks, the thought settling leaden in his chest, he has tasted that peculiar salt before-- and then he pulls back and settles next to the wall and says, "Get dressed" and Valjean does and they do not say anything more to each other. When the door shuts he notices the room is cold. He throws on his nightshirt. But sleep takes too long to claim him.   
  
\--  
  
"We have to stop doing this," Valjean pants into the wall. Javert is strangely entranced by the knowledge that the man could throw him off so easily – he has seen what he is capable of – and does not. Instead Valjean rests his forehead against the wall of Javert's apartment and Javert can hear his intakes of breath, the way the rhythm of his breathing changes as Javert fucks him, until it is only a series of shallow muffled pants. Those noises are strange coming from Valjean.   
  
"We have to," Valjean gasps.   
  
"We?" Javert says, punctuating the words with a snap of his hips that drags a long stuttering gasp out of the man beneath him, and for a moment he wonders if Valjean is making an effort not to make noise. "I could stop now," he says, withdrawing. He waits poised behind Valjean, hands gripping the man's hips.   
  
He sees crimson flush along Valjean's neck. "Don't," Valjean says.   
  
"I could stop now. I could leave you like this." Javert's thumb traces a circle on the ridge of Valjean's hip. It is intended to emphasize the humiliation of Valjean's position. It feels more like a caress than Javert would like. "Panting for me, like this. We have to stop? You are wanton for this. You are worse than a whore. You would beg me for it."  
  
He feels Valjean swallow. For a moment he is terrified Valjean will exercise some of that vaunted self-control of his and pull away. He cannot have that. He presses his chest to Valjean's back and buries his face in Valjean's neck and kisses him there, tongue darting out to taste the salt of Valjean's sweat. "Please," Valjean says.   
  
\--  
"Walk with me," Valjean says, a few days later. He ought to have a limp, Javert thinks, but if he does, he hides it well.  
  
"Do you wish to discuss something?"  
  
"No particular matter," Valjean says.

Javert frowns at him but joins him. They walk in silence. A few gamins emerge from alleys at the sight of Monsieur Madeleine but withdraw swiftly when they see the Inspector with him.   
  
"You will return to the house with heavier pockets than is your wont," Javert says.   
  
Valjean smiles. "It is true," he says. "I had forgotten your effect on people."  
  
"My effect!" Javert glances at him. "I have no effect on law-abiding citizens. And I do not like to be accosted by swarms of gamins."  
  
"I believe the feeling is mutual," Valjean says, and the smile widens. "Mice do not like accosting cats."  
  
"I am no cat."  
  
"I seem to have gotten your back up."  
  
"You are mocking me," Javert says.   
  
"I am not mocking you."  
  
"I think you are." Javert wonders, strangely, what would have become of Valjean if things had been different, if Valjean had not been to prison, if Valjean were no criminal, if they had no history together, if they could have become anything to one another. He wonders that Valjean dares tease him like this. They have so few secrets between them. They are capable of doing immense harm to one another and yet they have not. Perhaps that is why. Or perhaps it is the other thing. He cannot be the only one to notice that all their kisses have been preceded by arguments.   
  
"I would not dare."  
  
"You do," Javert says. He glances over at Valjean. "You are teasing me like a grisette who wants to be kissed."  
  
He watches Valjean swallow. "It has worked before," Valjean says, and the grin is back.   
  
He glances around. No one is looking.   
  
"Don't," Valjean says. It feels like a lapse that Valjean has caught him looking.  
  
"I had no intention of doing so," Javert says. "You think too highly of your powers of persuasion. What did you wish to discuss?"   
  
Valjean pauses too long.   
  
"That is what I thought," Javert says. "Good day." He is turning to go when Valjean clears his throat.   
  
"Inspector?" he says.   
  
"What?"  
  
"You are at home this evening?" Valjean tries to make the question sound casual.   
  
He knows what Valjean is asking. "I am," he says. Their eyes meet.   
  
Valjean nods. "Good."   
  
\--  
When Valjean comes in he is awkward and tries to pretend there is a reason for his visit. Javert looks at him and the words tumbling from his lips and smiles, slowly. "Undress," he says, cutting Valjean off in the middle of a sentence about managing hospital conditions.   
  
Valjean looks at him and falls instantly silent. He undoes a button very slowly. He seems unpleasantly aware of the effect he has. "You like seeing me, Inspector?"  
  
Javert tries to steady his breathing. "It does not signify," he says, "what I like. It is your place to obey me."  
  
"I was not disobeying," Valjean says, sliding the waistcoat off his shoulders. "I was merely asking."

He did not expect that Valjean would have this – coyness, for want of a better word. He had hoped that Valjean was unaware that he was looking. He should have been less a fool. Valjean has not gotten where he is on the strength of that smile alone. The man is not unintelligent, for all his strength. Valjean shucks off his shirt.   
  
"It is a relief," he says, standing with chest bared. Javert's eyes trace along the marks of his years of servitude. "I am so used to hiding these."  
  
Javert wets his lips. He was not aware that his mouth had gone dry. He wishes he had not discovered this desire in himself. He thinks sometimes that Valjean wishes the same. They are too ready to indulge each other. And desires like this ought not be indulged, certainly not by a convict and his guard, even less by a mayor and his inspector.   
  
"Do not speak," Javert says.   
  
Valjean begins to undo the fastenings of his trousers and Javert moves behind him, begins to trace along the marks of his back. What is the harm in it? Why bother holding back from this depravity? He bends nearer and traces his tongue along the line where Valjean's back muscles tense. Valjean freezes. He can feel how rapidly the convict's pulse is beating. It is hammering. He is not doing this to please Valjean but – he does not wish to stop.   
  
"Stop," Valjean says. There is no force in the word. "Don't."  
  
"I told you not to speak," Javert mutters. He reaches around Valjean and finishes undoing his trousers. Valjean is hard and leaking.   
  
"Why are you doing this?" he asks.  
  
"I told you not to speak," Javert mutters, into his neck. Valjean steps out of his trousers and stands naked in his arms. Javert can see his arousal now. Given their proximity he knows Valjean is aware of his. He reaches down to Valjean's and pulls experimentally at it, and Valjean lets out a long hissing breath. Javert kisses his neck again, runs a hand along the plane of Valjean's chest, toys with one of his nipples. Valjean's nipples are less responsive than he knows his own to be. He kisses Valjean's ear. He tries to think of a plausible explanation for what he is doing. It is hard to think with Valjean naked in his arms like this. He kisses his way over Valjean's back and he can feel Valjean's breathing change.   
  
"Get on the bed," he says.   
  
Valjean does, lying back and looking up curiously at him. Javert feels suddenly unsure of himself. He had begun this in frustration. He had not expected to feel this consuming desire. It soaks through him. He is kneeling over Valjean and tracing along his chest with a finger. This will be used against him, he thinks. This fascination. This – God. It is a fascination. He leans nearer and brings their mouths together. He had thought he might tire of kissing Valjean. The knowledge that he has not, that he has not begun to exhaust the variety of that teasing mouth, sits oddly in him. Valjean's teeth tug at his lower lip and he makes a sound that he has never made before.   
  
He had thought, before, that he had a special dispensation of virtue. He had thought he was better than others because he looked at the things they found beautiful and thought them all cheap and gaudy. The women they admired. Even the whores they used. They stirred nothing in him. He felt a smug superiority when he compared himself to them. He might partake, but it did not touch him. It did not consume him. His mind was his own. Even if he suspected that boys were more his inclination, the ones who offered were never of more than passing interest.   
  
But now he is confronted with this—thing, this body that is not, cannot, would not be considered beautiful, and he cannot tear his eyes away. So it is not virtue. It is only taste. The discovery is unnerving. He could have survived years not knowing that he craved this. He runs his hands down Valjean's corded thighs. Perhaps, he thinks, it is the casualty of a youth spent watching ragged men toil in torment. Perhaps it has always been in him.

"Tell me," Valjean says, suddenly, breaking the kiss.  
  
"I told you not to speak."  
  
"I know my body pleases you," Valjean murmurs against his lips.  
  
"You are too bold," Javert says.   
  
Valjean tangles his fingers in Javert's hair and pulls him into another kiss. "I think that does not displease you either."  
  
"You ought to be silent," Javert says. He presses Valjean back onto the mattress. He knows Valjean could make him stop. Valjean does not. Valjean grins up at him. "You ought not smile."  
  
"I will be obedient," Valjean says. He lets the corners of his mouth fall. But the smile is still in his eyes and Javert cannot kiss it away. He tries to.   
  
Javert's room is spartan. He gives thanks that the other lodgers are old; the wallpaper is not thick enough to muffle Valjean entirely, and it would be a sin to muffle that. Valjean blasphemes beautifully. The mirror on his washstand jumps a little as he slams Valjean into the edge of the mattress, their hips moving together in a rhythm it has been far too easy to find. He does not like the way his reflection looks, the abandon in his expression. They are falling off the bed but he finds that he is indifferent to any sensations except the way their bodies are moving together.   
  
"My bed is larger," Valjean gasps, "fuck, Javert, my bed is, God, you're – fuck, we could, God."  
  
"Speak up," Javert says, punctuating the words with a thrust. "When people talk to me they speak up."  
  
"I don't," Valjean gasps, fingers digging into the edge of the mattress, "I forget -- I don't know what I was—"  
  
Javert runs an appreciative hand down his back. "You're close," he says. "I'm going to fuck you until you come."  
  
"Yes," Valjean pants, "please, yes."  
  
He loses sight of himself in the mirror. He kisses the side of Valjean's neck and thrusts into him again and he can feel Valjean coming apart beneath him. He wonders what bed on earth could possibly be large enough to contain this. Then he is coming too.


	5. Chapter 5

The widow comes to the Mairie one evening as Javert is approaching it. It is one of the nights Valjean allows his housekeeper to take off. These nights are more and more frequent.   
  
"Madame?" Valjean asks.   
  
"Monsieur le Maire," the woman says, head bowed. She is holding a basket. "There was a miracle in my house. My children will not starve. We do not know whom to thank. But everyone I speak to says -- if there is a miracle in Montreuil, it is the Mayor's doing."  
  
Valjean tries to deflect her praise. He seems oddly flustered by it. Javert cannot hear what he is saying.   
  
"I have been called a good baker," the widow says. "May I come in?"   
  
He watches something scurry across Valjean's face. "Certainly," Valjean says, very measuredly. "You should not stand here in the cold."  
  
Javert finds an excuse to patrol the streets nearby. It is not long before she comes out. He cannot read her face. He knocks and goes in. He is not sure whence this curiosity sprang.   
  
"She is wasting her labors," he says, shutting the door.   
  
Valjean is eating a slice of bread. "The bread is still warm," he says. "It is good bread." He frowns. "She gives me this, when I have no need of it, and – there are so many who have need."  
  
"I do not think that was all she meant to give you," Javert hears himself saying.   
  
Valjean glances up at him. Their eyes meet. "No," Valjean says, measuredly. "Surely not, Javert. No, I do not think so."  
  
"I know these people."  
  
"I do not think so."  
  
"But it signifies little," Javert says, suddenly, strangely, uncomfortable, taking a step closer. Valjean approaches him. They stand looking at each other.   
  
"No," Valjean says, quietly. "If you are right, it would not have—"  
  
Javert wants to smirk. He does not like the way those words settle warmly in his ear. He does not want to name the satisfaction he feels at this admission. He tries to counteract it. "The poor fool," he says. "She does not know she is wasting her attentions on a convict and a vagabond."  
  
"How terrible," Valjean mutters, stepping almost into his arms, "to waste one's attentions on a convict and a vagabond."  
  
Javert looks sharply at him and hates that smile. He tries to kiss it off. He tries not to notice the way Valjean bends to his touch. He presses a line of kisses from Valjean's ear to his throat just to hear the noise he makes. "She does not know what you are," he says. "She does not know what you want."  
  
"No," Valjean murmurs, his eyes shutting, his throat bared. He is very warm in Javert's arms. Javert kisses him longer than he means to.   
  
\--

"Javert," Valjean gasps, voice ragged. " This is madness."  
  
"It is not madness. It is possession. We must exorcise it," Javert gasps back. Javert thrusts into him again. They had not expected it to come to this, on the Mayor's desk. It is highly dangerous here. They are indulging each other far too much. "This is the only way."  
  
"This -- is the uttermost – God -- folly," Valjean chokes.   
  
"Then stop me," Javert mutters, driving into him again.   
  
"Someone might come at any moment."  
  
"Yes," Javert says. "And see you like this. The Mayor of Montreuil-sur-Mer. Spread for me." They are panting together. Javert punctuates the words with another thrust. "Shall I stop?"  
  
Valjean shakes his head. Javert kisses his dark hair where it curls above his nape. It should not be so soft. Toulon should have driven all softness out of him. But there is this bewildering softness to Valjean. His lips are very soft. His hands are surprisingly gentle. There is a softness in his eyes afterwards that Javert is training himself not to see. Valjean should not be so soft. He is a convict. Convicts are hard. Criminals are hard. The law is hard. Valjean's bed is soft. He wishes he did not know that. They will not do it there again, he thinks, that was too close to making love, and love is the opposite of what he feels for this – reprobate. This criminal.   
  
"Someone could come along at this moment and see what you really are," Javert breathes into his neck, thrusting into him again.  
  
"W-what am I?" Valjean's fingers are loosening their grip on the edge of the desk.   
  
"Mine," Javert says, thrusting home. Valjean is boneless and slack beneath him, his face is drenched in sweat. Javert thinks with satisfaction of the limp the mayor will have to work to suppress, of how Valjean will manage a studiously neutral expression each time he sits down, if the last time was any indication, or the time before that. Or the time before—  
  
This has been happening too much.   
  
"Say it," Javert grits. He is perilously close.   
  
"It," Valjean gasps, bursting into laughter. He sprawls helpless on the desk. Javert is doing all the work now. Valjean's legs have given way, and Javert can feel that laughter in his entire body. It should not be this that pushes him to the brink. Convicts do not laugh like that. He tries to think of things he does not like, to make himself last, to deprive Valjean of the satisfaction of knowing what his laugh has done. He thinks of disorderly linens. He tries not to think of the sprawl of their clothes together on the floor of the mairie or his own apartment or any of the other places where this madness has seized them. He thrusts once more and is lost. He feels Valjean's familiar spasm beneath him. It should not be familiar. Quickly he buries a kiss in Valjean's sweat-damp hair.   
  
"Yours," Valjean says.   
  
He helps Valjean pull up his trousers and button them. Valjean brushes his uniform off and smiles at him. Valjean's smile sits oddly in his gut. There are so many things he cannot stand about this man.   
  
"Well," he says. He goes to open the windows and let the light in.   
  
Valjean nods. "Inspector."   
  
\--  
  
"Wait," Valjean says, clambering out of the deep bed at the Mairie. Javert is half dressed. This is the part he least enjoys. "Kiss me."  
  
"I thought you would have tired of being kissed by me, by now," Javert says, trying to keep his voice neutral.

He wants to turn on his heel and deny him this, but Valjean's lips parted like that for him are hard to refuse. He catches him by the arms and kisses him. He kisses him again. Valjean's hands slide around his waist and he keeps kissing him.   
  
He pushes Valjean down against the bed and kisses him thoroughly.   
  
"You were leaving," Valjean says.   
  
"I am leaving," Javert says. He leans down and presses a kiss to Valjean's neck. He curses himself for knowing the precise spot that makes Valjean melt in his arms. He curses himself again for wanting to feel that. He curses himself again for bringing their mouths together again, kissing Valjean long and slow and lewd, as though he could never have him again and had to show him what he wanted with his mouth alone. Valjean sucks obscenely on his tongue. If this kiss is any indication what they want is the same.   
  
"We have to stop doing this," Javert says, pulling back. They are learning each other, he thinks. The thought terrifies him.   
  
"Stop, then," Valjean says. He leans up and kisses the side of his face.   
  
"I would have stopped gladly if you had not asked to kiss me," Javert says. He frowns. He wishes he did not know what it was like to kiss Valjean, how sinful that mouth is, how willingly that strong body yields to him. He wishes he had never run his hand appreciatively along the muscles of that shoulder as he rode out his climax inside him. He wishes he had never known what it was to thrust into that tight heat until Valjean was wrecked and gasping and gazing up at him with wide drunken eyes. It is worse than snuff. He could give up snuff.   
  
"You will be late, inspector," Valjean says. His eyes are almost merry.   
  
"That is your fault," Javert says. He gets up. "Do not ask me to kiss you again," he says, leaning in and kissing Valjean again. This is madness. He must be rid of it. But he can see no end to it.  
  
\--  
  
"Wait," Javert says, the next time. He fumbles in his pocket. Then there is oil on his fingers and Valjean is – yes, it is worth it, to see Valjean like this, in ecstasy only, unmingled with pain. He wonders when he stopped wanting to see Valjean hurt.   
  
"You gave thought to this," Valjean says, afterwards.   
  
"I—" Javert does not mean to stammer. "It seemed more efficient."  
  
"What was your excuse?" Valjean asks, settling on an elbow.   
  
"Get dressed," Javert says.   
  
Valjean pulls on his shirt. "You had to buy this somewhere. What was it?"  
  
"I had some machinery at home that was giving trouble," Javert says.   
  
"A jack."  
  
Javert does not mean to laugh. It is harder to control himself in the aftermath, with the tide of pleasure still rippling in him. "I did not specify."  
  
"But," Valjean says, wonderingly, tugging on his trousers, "the whole time you went there to purchase it, you were thinking of this. You lied to them and thought of us like this."  
  
"You make it sound far more dramatic than it was," Javert says.   
  
"You went with your uniform neat," Valjean rhapsodizes, "and your boots polished and you bought it and you've been thinking of this. And you've been carrying it."  
  
"Not everywhere," Javert says.   
  
Valjean kisses him. It is sweeter than he expected. His arms slide around Valjean's waist and he almost regrets telling him to dress.   
  
\--  
He awakens when the warmth around which he has been curled moves and sits up and begins climbing out of bed.   
  
"Stay," Javert says, before he can think about it. "You are cheaper than a furnace."

Valjean looks at him. When did they start seeking each other's company like this? He feels brazen at having asked so openly.  
  
"No," Valjean says, sitting up. "You know this must cease. You often tell me so."

Javert swallows. It is dark and the space Valjean has left beneath his sheets is cold. "Suppose I were to tell you so less often," he says.

He hears Valjean sigh. Valjean sits on the edge of the bed and the mattress shifts beneath his weight. "What could we ever be to each other?" he asks. "Javert, be serious."

"If you can stop," Javert says. 

"You are in no danger," Valjean says. "You are merely having your way with a condemned man, is that not so? You would never take this license otherwise." He emits a strangled chuckle. "And God knows I am glad enough for you to take it."

Javert is glad of the darkness. "I know who you are," he says. 

"You do not call me by my name. You know what I used to be," Valjean says. He has not heard Valjean talk so much in weeks. "You do not know who I am. You fuck me to make me remember that I was a convict."

"That is certainly how it started," Javert says. He sits up and leans his cheek against Valjean's back. It is less difficult to talk like this than he expected. "You are turning this into a fairy tale," he says, "where you are one thing by day and another by night, and if I try to sort out which is which I will spill candlewax on you, you will fly ells away, and I will have to follow you west of the moon."

"I am not familiar with that story."

"I think it has many names," Javert says. He can think of no reason not to kiss Valjean's shoulder. He does. "When I heard it he was a bear by day and at night a man."

"The women in this town already call me a courteous bear," Valjean says, amusement creeping into his tone, "I am not sure I wish to hear it from you."

"Whatever you are, you do not cease to be at night," Javert says. "I know that well enough." He shifts under the covers to make room, and he is not surprised when Valjean comes. "Besides if you are a bear then I am a princess," he murmurs, lips brushing Valjean's ear. Valjean rewards him with a laugh. No. Reward is not the word.  
\--  
  
"I will put a stop to this tomorrow," Javert says.   
  
"Will you?" Valjean looks up from between his thighs.   
  
"I must," Javert says. "Look at us."  
  
Valjean kisses the inside of his thigh. "What?" That obscene mouth moves higher.   
  
"The mayor of Montreuil-sur-Mer has his head between my thighs," Javert says, "and in a moment he will take me in his mouth, and he will enjoy it."  
  
"I'm not only the mayor," Valjean says. "You know what I am." And then that mouth engulfs him.   
  
"Monsieur," Javert gasps. "Oh God. Oh God. Valjean." The name sounds different than it did.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The more I stare at it the more I think this title is stupid and pretentious, but OH WELL.

He tries to reassure himself that it is only the body that plagues him. Not Valjean. The body. He struggles with Valjean as Jacob wrestled with the angel. He is not sure which of them is Jacob. Valjean wins, often, but not always. But always, afterwards, he yields. Javert has been trying to push him. Valjean has had him hefted against the wall and Javert does not think there was any indication that he was anything but willing. But Valjean seems to see this as a test of his patience. His patience is insultingly limitless. Once, wanton, Javert slid flush against him in mimicry of the act itself, and he made a sound that has fueled numerous pleasant dreams but did nothing about it. He supposes Valjean is trying to prove something.  
  
"You may," he says one night, tipsy with kissing Valjean, falling back onto the mattress. "If you choose to press your advantage I will not stop you."  
  
Valjean's face changes. He cannot read the expression.  
  
"If you would rather not," he says, hastily. He has been too sure of Valjean perhaps. It is not right to offer him this. He does not want it. "If you do not want—"  
  
"Not want you?" Valjean says, incredulous. Valjean's eyes say something entirely different now, warm and – No. Too warm.  
  
This is not what he meant.  
  
"No," he says. "I do not mean anything by it."  
  
But Valjean still looks at him. Javert has had enough of looking. He pulls Valjean down into a kiss. Valjean's tongue slides lewdly into his mouth and he sucks on it encouragingly, slides his hand to Valjean's and intertwines their fingers. There is something too intimate in the gesture.  
  
"I would like you to," Valjean says.  
  
"Then it is decided," Javert says.  
  
Valjean kisses his neck. It reverberates through his whole body. When Valjean's mouth moves up to his ear it is like a wave passing over him. "I mean," Valjean says, almost shy, "I would like you to mean something by it."  
  
"I don't," Javert says. "What could I possibly mean?" His finger finds one of Valjean's old scars and traces it. It is half a caress and half a reproof. Something shuts in Valjean's eyes. He has a momentary impulse to try to reignite them, to lean nearer and mutter glib sweet words he does not mean, words he has found Valjean is too willing to listen to, words Valjean treasures as grossly and excessively as a mother her child's ill-wrought drawings. He could rekindle those eyes like that. He wonders why he even thinks of doing it. Valjean is nothing to him. He makes his finger trace another of those whip marks. He wonders when he began to think that they marred something that might not otherwise be ugly. This is a foolish thought; it is the beginning of forgetting what Valjean is.  
  
"Stop," Valjean says. Javert doesn't. "Don't." Valjean jerks away.  
  
Javert reaches towards him again. Valjean catches him by the wrists, pushes him down on the mattress, glowers down. Javert stares back. He knows his face is impassive. His breaths are coming too quickly. He tries to steady himself. He does not like the idea of the convict knowing how excited this side of Valjean makes him. "Stop," Valjean says. "I told you."  
  
"You were perfectly capable of stopping me yourself," Javert says. "24601."

Valjean's scowl darkens and the convict's fingers reach into his hair and tug. "Stop."  
  
He leans up and brings their mouths together. It is an unexpectedly passionate kiss; they are both more aroused by their present position than they would have steeled themselves to admit. When Javert pulls away Valjean's eyes are alight again, but the light is colder. It is easier.  
  
"So this is what you want," Valjean says.  
  
"If it is I am not alone in wanting it," Javert says, kissing him again. Valjean's kiss is sufficient agreement. Valjean's fingers release his wrists and Valjean moves down his body. He is disagreeably hard. Valjean mouths at one of his nipples and he goes rigid. Valjean's tongue teases there and then Valjean sucks and his back is arching mortifyingly into the touch. Valjean kisses the notch of his collarbone. He emits a shaky breath. He can feel the smug curl of the convict's lips. He wishes Valjean did not know this about him. This is knowledge they have purchased dearly of each other. Every inch of Valjean's body that he has kissed is ground that they have contested together. Valjean kisses the other nipple and he is very nearly but not quite silent. Valjean's eyes say he has noticed. He does not like this slow moving over his body. He is proud of his form but not this way. This feels more obscene than the other. He moves to extinguish the lamp.  
  
"I can kiss you as well in the dark," Valjean says, reaching to stay his hand.  
  
"You are punishing me," Javert mutters.  
  
"Why would I punish you?" Valjean asks, and there is that nearly merry glint in his eyes. He bites Javert's nipple and Javert bucks against him, gasping.  
  
"You are less merciful," Valjean says. "I am very merciful."  
  
Javert tries to think of sufficient revenges. It is hard to think with Valjean's mouth trailing kisses down his chest like that. Valjean's tongue finds the beginning of the salting of dark hairs over his belly and down to where his cock sits rigid and straining between his legs. Valjean kisses his way down it. Javert reaches a hand into his hair, tries to make him move to the one area that craves attention, but Valjean merely looks at him and treats the hand as one might a buzzing fly.  
  
"Tonight," he murmurs, and Javert recognizes the roughness in that tone, "you will not have your way with me, Javert."  
  
"No?"  
  
Valjean kisses the inside of his thigh. "Tonight I will have my way with you."  
  
The words should not excite him like that. He tugs experimentally at Valjean's hair and Valjean does not move. Their eyes lock. For a minute Valjean's hold a question, and Javert nods, once, wordlessly. Then Valjean's hands are parting his thighs, settling Javert's legs over his shoulders.

Valjean's mouth does not move where he was expecting. It moves somewhere else. The intimacy of the gesture it implies makes him shudder a little. Valjean's eyes are fixed on his task; Valjean makes a faint appreciative murmur, and Javert's breath hitches.  
  
"I haven't even touched you," Valjean breathes, and – it is strange to feel his warm breath _there_. "But look how eager you are."  
  
"I am not eager," Javert breathes. His own voice sounds practically alien. Valjean's tongue flicks out and teases him. He can almost feel Valjean's smile when Valjean settles there in earnest, coaxing him open with striving tongue. It is an unfamiliar neighborhood of Heaven. He barely recognizes the sounds he makes, the high whine of his own breath. Valjean is patient and his tongue is talented but it is maddeningly little. He shoves against it, craving more.  
  
"Please," he hears himself asking.  
  
Valjean pulls back and he can see that smile. "I like hearing you beg for once," he says. "So sincerely."  
  
"Please," Javert gasps. His heels drag along Valjean's back. He has never been exposed like this, to anyone. He wonders why it seems so natural to trust Valjean with it.  
  
Valjean pulls back and the tongue is replaced by a finger. He takes it easily. Valjean's hands are large and familiar, now – everything is familiar, he can trace the marks on Valjean's back without opening his eyes, and he wonders why this thought occurs to him now, in this of all places. Valjean inserts another.  
  
"Am I like this," he murmurs, gazing wonderingly at Javert.  
  
"You are," Javert says, "in better practice," and then he makes a noise that is not quite human and Valjean's mouth settles there again to tease him. Now he is writhing into the sheets, his control is slipping, his heels scrabble for purchase at Valjean's back. "Please," he hears himself gasp. "Please, Valjean."  
  
Valjean hums contentedly and he almost cries out. It is too much. Valjean's fingers crook within him and he shudders. It is embarrassing to be played upon like this. But he would not have it stop for the world.  
  
"Please," he breathes again. The word is growing easier to say.  
  
"It is hard to deny you anything," Valjean mutters, pulling back, scissoring his fingers and sending white sparks of pleasure through Javert. Javert's hips buck up towards him. "When you ask so prettily."  
  
Valjean's hand withdraws. Then he can feel the blunt head of Valjean's cock nudging at his entrance. He presses toward it. As it breaches him they gasp together.  
  
"Javert," Valjean mutters. Javert is stretched taut around him, breathing shakily. Valjean feels so large. It should not be so good. Valjean slides all the way into him with a slow satisfaction. "Javert I—"  
  
"No," Javert says, but there is no force to his voice, he cannot summon harshness now.  
  
"Look at me," Valjean says.  
  
Javert shuts his eyes.  
  
"I wish you would take me some other way," he breathes.  
  
"You do not like to see the man who is fucking you?" Valjean asks. "The – convict, is that it?" His voice is strangely gentle for the words. Javert nods. He finds his eyes have opened again. Valjean's meet his and he thinks how familiar they are, dark and warm. They are like the summer night outside his window, months ago. He does not look away. The look lasts while Valjean begins to thrust into him, slowly, meticulously, making him pant shallowly. He remembers Valjean panting like this beneath him. He thinks his eyes say so. The look brings their mouths together. He has never kissed anyone like this. No, that is not true. He has kissed Valjean like this with their positions reversed. But it has only been Valjean. Always and only it has been Valjean. He cannot conceive of this with anyone else. The thought frightens him.  
  
"Say it," Valjean says, breaking the kiss, mouth brushing Javert's neck.  
  
"It," Javert tries.  
  
Valjean's hips halt a moment their steady motion and a strange strangled laugh emerges from the other man's throat. His brow is furrowed but he is smiling. They should not be like this together, Javert thinks. This is not what he meant to start.

Valjean leans in and kisses him and the kiss is slow and thorough and familiar, he kisses back willingly, too willingly, it is hard to hide his hunger for this, and Valjean's tongue delves into his mouth as Valjean begins to thrust again, gently. He does not want to stop kissing him; Valjean does not stop; if he was tipsy before he is drunk now, this is how lovers might – He does not like the thought. When their mouths sever the kiss leaves them both panting. He fears to think how he must look. That warmth has crept back into Valjean's eyes.  
  
"You will be angry," Valjean says, "if I tell you you are beautiful like this?"  
  
"Yes," Javert pants. "Do not tell me that."  
  
"What do you want to hear?" Valjean says. "I will tell you anything."  
  
"We have to stop," Javert gasps against his neck. A stopper has come loose somewhere in him and he is babbling senselessly. "I did not think this would ever come to – I tell myself every night that I will not come to you, that we must not, I – God – I pace and pace and – fuck, don't stop – I thought it would not be like this – I did not think I would grow so accustomed to you – you feel so big, fuck – this is – we must stop but I cannot imagine how -- kiss me--" Valjean kisses him, pulls out, settles with his back on the mattress and looks up at him. There is an invitation in his eyes. His hands clamp around Javert's waist. Javert moves – he cannot resist this; he lowers himself onto Valjean's cock and lets gravity accomplish the work between them. Valjean's hands lift him and lower him and set the pace; he gives himself over.  
  
"You had forgotten I was strong," Valjean says.  
  
"No," Javert pants. "You do not let me forget that." His eyes fall shut; the world narrows to a point, the point where their bodies are intersecting. He is boneless; he emits a mortifying sound; Valjean has found the spot; he had not expected it would come to this; he can feel the tide of release building within him. He cannot think. He gives himself over to sensation. Valjean feels so large within him; Valjean's hands on his waist are so warm and firm; he darts a glance at Valjean and sees that his mouth has fallen open in ecstasy, that if he is close Valjean is as close. Their eyes meet. "I'm almost arrived," he mutters.  
  
"Thank God; I cannot hold off much longer with you like this," Valjean gasps.  
  
"Do not," Javert says.  
  
"For me," Valjean breathes, looking up at him. "Can you come? Like this? Without a touch, only from me inside you, taking you like this, fucking you on my cock."  
  
Javert feels his spasm beginning. "Don't—" he starts, "it's not—" and then Valjean lifts him again, lowers him, he can feel Valjean's control fraying, and he emits a helpless sound, he is spending onto Valjean's stomach, it seems that he will spend forever.  
  
Valjean comes watching him; the sensation is strange but unmistakable. His legs give out and he collapses on Valjean. Valjean's hands slide appreciatively up his sides to his back, tug him down into his arms. He settles there willingly. In the room that smells of sex, in the unexpected chill of the air on his cooling sweat and the familiar warmth of Valjean's body beneath him, dozens of phrases spring into his mind. He thinks of saying them, while his heart is still beating fast and they might not signify much. The longer they lie there the farther away the words seem. He is very aware of Valjean's heartbeat.  
  
"Yours," he breathes. He is not sure if Valjean hears it. Valjean kisses his forehead. He pulls free, settles with their legs tangled together. His fingers stroke down Javert's back, trace along his buttocks, slide idly into the cleft where his seed is pooling, trace appreciatively there. Javert does not bother to reproach him. He drifts off to sleep. When he wakens he is still in Valjean's arms and Valjean has thrown the sheet over them. He searches himself for the urge to leave the bed, leave his arms, and cannot find it.  
  
\--

Bamatabois is a despicable bourgeois, the sort of man who goes to shop for a tart with a servant holding his hat, and Javert is hoping to inconvenience him with a long and thorough report on exactly how he came to be scratched by this hellcat.  
  
Then he spots Valjean.  
  
"Let her go," Valjean says.  
  
"I beg your pardon?"  
  
"I saw what happened," Valjean says. "She is not in the wrong here. He accosted her."  
  
"Monsieur—" he says. It sounds strange to call him that. Their glances tangle.  
  
The whore takes the opportunity to spit at Valjean. Valjean bears it. "I would not lie to you," Valjean says.  
  
"Let her go," Javert says. Valjean grabs up the woman and bears her to the hospital.  
  
Javert watches him. He ought to feel something. He has just had his order countermanded and a whore is being taken to the hospital, not to the jail, and – what does he feel instead? Can he possibly trust this man?

It is just barely possible.  
  
He walks and walks. He finds that he has walked to the Mairie. There is light within and he knows that this is not a night the housekeeper will be there. He lets himself in.  
  
"I am sorry to have flouted your authority," Valjean says, when the door shuts.  
  
"It was your testimony against his," Javert says, measuredly. "And you know where my loyalty must lie." This is not quite right, he thinks. His loyalty is not to the mayor. It is to the law. Valjean seems to notice.  
  
"I have your loyalty?" Valjean says.  
  
"Stop talking nonsense," Javert says, bridging the gap between them. Valjean kisses him distractedly. "What?" Javert asks, pulling back.  
  
"I have done wrong," Valjean says. "That – woman used to work in my factory. She has a child. The things she has suffered because I cast her out!"  
  
"You could not have known."  
  
"I have sent for the child," Valjean says. "The poor mother. How can I have been so heartless?"  
  
"You?" Javert says, almost amused. "Heartless?"  
  
Valjean looks at him. "That is good to hear from you."  
  
"You are many foolish things, Jean Valjean," Javert says, "but not heartless."  
  
"You do not know how hard I try," Valjean says.  
  
"I do know," Javert says. "I have watched you."  
  
This time Valjean kisses him in earnest.  
  
"Suppose God is gracious enough to permit me to escape notice still longer," Valjean breathes against his neck. "What will you do then?"  
  
There was a time when Javert did not dread the slip. But now dread comes nearest to the feeling that slinks into his stomach at the thought of Valjean in chains again. Valjean belongs to him, not to them. He is sufficient punishment. These incoherent thoughts of possession string themselves together in his mind. "I will plague you still longer," he mutters. Valjean hefts him against the wall and they are kissing desperately.  
  
"And suppose not?"  
  
"I do not suppose not," Javert says. He does not add, I pray not. This prayer has joined his litany, when he cares to pray.  
  
"You hope it will not come to that."  
  
"Do not call it hope," Javert says.

\--

"Suppose," Javert says, a few nights later, "she does not revive instantly at the sight of her child, like someone in a bad novel. Suppose she perishes."  
  
"I will not suppose that yet," Valjean says. "In what novel has that happened?'  
  
Javert frowns. "Do you read?"  
  
"The books are not entirely decorative," Valjean says.  
  
Javert looks at him. "I did not think you read."  
  
"Because I was a convict?" Valjean climbs out of bed. "I am reading this," he says. Javert's eyes follow him. He knows Valjean is aware of the scrutiny. He seems to welcome it. He has not bothered to put on a nightshirt. He produces a book from a large stack.  
  
Javert glances at the cover. "You will not like it," he says.  
  
"Why do you say that?"  
  
"I read it. It is not something you would like."  
  
"I have liked it well enough so far."  
  
"You like everything."  
  
"I believe it was Candide's philosopher Martin who said that the best stomachs are not those which refuse all food," Valjean says, grinning.  
  
Javert starts. "You have read Candide." He shakes his head. "It is quite unnatural," he mutters, more to himself than to Valjean.  
  
"It is hardly more unnatural than your reading it."  
  
"I read it," Javert says. He frowns. "I did not like it. It was very chaotic."  
  
"I liked the sheep," Valjean says. "I am glad they got to keep one."  
  
Javert grins bemusedly at him.  
  
"My housekeeper is worried that I spend all my evenings alone," Valjean says, climbing back into the bed beside him. "She thinks it is charity on my part to send her away."  
  
"She gives you too much credit," Javert says.  
  
Valjean catches Javert's arm and settles it around him. "I am glad that you are here," he says.  
  
Javert kisses his neck. The fire burns itself to embers and then to ashes until Valjean in his arms is the only heat the room contains. It is the only furnace he requires.  
  
\--  
When he sleeps alone the bed feels empty. When he gets finished with patrol he as often finds himself at the mairie as at his rooms. Valjean lends him a nightshirt. It is too broad for him and not long enough. He wonders when they began talking to one another. He can pinpoint the moment they kissed the first time and the first time he had Valjean on the table and the first time Valjean came to his rooms and the times after that – but this – he cannot pinpoint when he first laughed at a remark of Valjean's or the first time he said he wished to go but knew that it was a lie. He does not know when he started wanting not to leave.  
  
He wonders if others notice the change between them.  
  
"Does anyone have a request for the mayor?" one of the other officers says, as Javert is leaving the station house. It is all Javert can do not to start.  
  
As it happens no one does.  
  
"I have given out that we play chess," Valjean says, when he inquires. "I hope you do not mind. It cannot escape notice how often you visit me."  
  
"No," Javert says. "I do not mind. But you had better teach me how to play."  
  
\--

Valjean does. 

The chess occupies a peculiar position between them; it is an alibi but it is also an excuse to spend time with Valjean. He thought he had learned all of Valjean that was relevant, but -- in the enforced chastity of a chess game, he notices other things. The way Valjean sits. His habit of adjusting his cuffs. 

Javert picks it up easily enough. He is adept at long games and chess is a long game. Valjean seems too intrigued by what each piece can do to try any real strategy with them. He seems to be hoping to rescue as many of them as he can.

"It's a long game," Javert says. "You should not waste time extricating that bishop."

"I hate to lose my bishops," Valjean says. 

"That is silly of you," Javert says. 

"I know."

"Check."

"It is a good thing I extricated that bishop." Valjean takes the threatening piece.

"Check."

"Javert."

"You do not seem to have any real desire to win."

Javert takes the bishop. "Check."

Valjean looks piqued. He does something suicidally stupid with a pawn. 

"Checkmate."

"Oh." Valjean frowns at the board. "What did we decide was at stake--"

Javert pushes back his chair and comes to stand in front of Valjean's. Valjean's smile blossoms. "Ah," he says. "A memory stirs."

"You did this on purpose."

"You give me too much credit." Valjean's fingers begin to work at the fastenings of his trousers. "You are already--"

"You did that on purpose."

"If all I have to do is look at you, Inspector--"

This ease that has developed between them sets something nervous stirring around his stomach. He has no word for it as yet. He reaches down and traces a thumb along Valjean's lower lip. "I can think of better uses for that mouth, Valjean," he says. 

\--

When the note arrives at the station house stating that they have caught Jean Valjean and he is in Arras, Javert's legs nearly give out. He braces a hand on his desk. The world reels. Slowly his senses return. They cannot have Valjean. He had Valjean this morning. They have the wrong man. Still the idea that they might have him is terrifying.

He must see Valjean.

He has never owned much. His rooms are rented. His uniform is his own, he takes pride in it, but he has not chosen its design. But Valjean is his, particularly and peculiarly and frustratingly, in ways he cannot begin to describe or voice aloud. He cannot give him back to anonymity and the lash now.

The thought that Valjean is in Arras in chains and that his particularity will be stripped from him until he is one nameless beard in a long row of nameless beards – there is something worse than unjust about it. And Valjean is not a bad mayor. He knows that each of these is an insufficient reason in itself, but together they tangle into a mass too big for him to uproot. He does not know what he will do if he is forced to give this up. He cannot begin to conceive of it.

When he sees Valjean he feels an unspeakable relief.

"Hello," he says.

"You seem almost happy to see me, Inspector," Valjean says. His eyes are curious. "Is something the matter?"

"No," Javert says. "Nothing is the matter. Can an Inspector not be glad to see his mayor?"

Unaccountably he whistles on his way off patrol.  
\--

"What is the matter?" Valjean asks, that night.

"They have caught you," Javert says.

"Who?" Valjean looks up at him. He cards his fingers through the fine hairs of Javert's chest.

"In Arras," Javert says. "They have found Jean Valjean. They sent me word today."

Valjean pales. "That cannot be," he says.

"No," Javert agrees. "Nevertheless they insist they have."

"You did not betray me."

"I would not betray you," Javert mutters, pressing a kiss to his forehead. Something strange is fluttering in him. He feels as though the reprieve has come to him, not to Valjean. This will never be used against him. This does not have to end badly. He may keep this -- whatever the word is for what they are together, this thing that he has discovered belongs to him.

"Then." Valjean frowns. "What am I to do?"

"You don't have to do anything."

Valjean frowns. "No," he says slowly. "It will be a life sentence. I cannot in good conscience--"

"You fool," Javert says, "after all this time, you would simply turn yourself in and undo everything? You are the master of hundreds of workers. You would throw it away to spare one man?"

"I cannot buy my freedom like this," Valjean says. "My motives would be – mixed, at best." He kisses Javert's throat. He kisses his way slowly along the line of Javert's shoulders. "I like you better without your uniform," he says.

"Do not change the subject," Javert says, tugging away. There is a silence.

"You don't know what it was like," Valjean says. "I could not force that on another."

"I know," Javert says, "enough." He traces one of the marks on Valjean's back. "But I do not think you could go back either."

Valjean shudders. "The Lord will give me strength to bear what I must bear, but they will have to drag me back."

"What else do you think would happen if you denounced yourself?"

"I might elude them," Valjean says.

"Might," Javert says. "You would throw away everything you have built here, even if you did."

Valjean looks at him. "Not everything," he says, a little uncertainly.

"No," Javert says, surprised at the admission. He frowns against Valjean's shoulder. "I could—" Javert says. "I could speak to them."

Valjean glances bewildered at him.

"I could say he was not you," Javert says. "I know you. I could tell them that. I could name any of these marks upon your skin. They have called me to testify."

Valjean looks at him.

"I ought to be able to do something with this knowledge," Javert says, almost irritably. "God knows I have paid dearly for it."

 

"Do you regret—"

"I did not say that. You do not heed," Javert says. "I could tell them I would know you anywhere, and that this man is evidently not you. It will not be a lie."

Valjean kisses his shoulder. "You would be throwing your lot in with me," he murmurs, "with that omission."

"My lot is with you," Javert says. Valjean smiles. He traces the smile with a finger. Valjean did not smile in Toulon. He does not wish to be guilty of purging the world of that smile.

"I do not think I would like it better," Valjean says, "if you said it as others say it."

Javert kisses him on the lips. It is almost chaste. "Well," he says, "perhaps someday we will find out."

\--

The ride to Arras is long. His testimony is short. He looks at the man in the dock and shakes his head. "This is not your man. I am sorry." He has practiced the half-dozen decent things to say. The others echoed laughingly in his head as he rode. ("This is not Valjean. Valjean's prick is larger." "This not Valjean. Valjean would have kissed me by now." "This is not Valjean. I am not in –" He is not ready to think so yet.) Still the ride is long. Champmathieu was too much a fool to speak in his own defense. He could have been locked away for life. As it is he will bear nothing worse than his present crime has earned.  
\--

"How did you say you knew me?" Valjean asks, in the darkness. The room smells of sex. Their arms are locked around each other. He is glad to be back from Arras.

 

"It was very dry and uninteresting," Javert says. "Compared to what I might have said." Valjean's tongue teases along the shell of his ear and he makes a smothered sound so that Valjean will know to do it again. "I might have told them I knew he was the wrong man because Jean Valjean was waiting for me in our bed in Montreuil-sur-Mer, with his legs spread."

 

Valjean laughs.

"I might have told them all sort of things that he could never have guessed," Javert says, "how you like to be kissed, how your hair is turning grey here and here and you favor this knee and you have a clever tongue and a broad back and -- I think you are in love with me, may God have mercy on your soul."

"Amen," Valjean says, kissing his cheek.

"And on mine," Javert mutters, half into the pillow. He feels rather than sees Valjean smile. Valjean's fingers trace up his neck, caress his cheek, turn his face until their eyes meet.  


 

"You have saved two men today," Valjean says, and his dark eyes are serious.

 

"Three," Javert says, kissing him full on the mouth. They kiss until they are breathless. He is certain now that he will not tire of this. "I have saved three."


End file.
